


Ribbons and Lace

by Blissome



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: M/M, Master/Servant, Power Play, Seduction, Sexual Content, even a demon can appreciate a sharp overcoat
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-11-29
Updated: 2012-05-14
Packaged: 2017-10-26 16:20:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/285359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blissome/pseuds/Blissome
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Madame Red suggests that Ciel get close to the Viscount by dressing up as a woman, an adult Ciel finds himself fighting to conceal a secret that, if revealed, will forever alter the balance of power between himself and his long-term butler.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> An Adult!Ciel and Sebastian (I can't deal with shota, sorry. Also, this way the dynamic is so much more fun!) Aging him up to around 18-19--as far as this story is concerned, he's spent longer searching for revenge with Sebastian at his side. Based centrally off of the anime.

 

 

When Madame Red first suggests that the best way to get close to the Viscount is for Ciel to dress up a woman, Ciel's eyes widen briefly before narrowing in irritation.  _How like her.  The most flamboyant plans-- her strategies here are as hopeless as they are on the chessboard._   "How ridiculous.  Sebastian, think of--"

"My lord."  Bowing politely from his waist, Sebastian leans down to speak quietly into Ciel's ear.  Ciel avoids looking at him.  "This is, I believe, the best way.  The Viscount has a well-known love for, well," and here, his mouth quirks briefly upward, but he continues on, voice smooth,  "lovely ladies, and it would be quite easy for you to assume the role." There is a brief puff of air alongside his cheek, and Ciel knows without looking that Sebastian is smirking now as he murmurs, "Lovely as young master is--"

"I am not a lady."  He channels as much of his irritation as he can into his voice, trying to avoid how disturbed the compliment and the closeness of Sebastian beside him--still with that damn, damned infernal smirk--is making him.  "And I don't have any women's garments," he adds, despite recognizing the hopelessness of the statement even as he says it.  Of course Sebastian can provide them.  The cursed creature provides everything.  _Everything, and thoroughly._

"I shall provide them for you," Sebastian replies, straightening and turning to begin walking out of the room. Irritated, Ciel watches him go, thrumming his fingers against the desk.  "Ugh," he grumbles, and tore his eyes away from the clean line of that coat jacket, the soft sway of the pointed tips at its neatly-hemmed edges, only to turn and see Madame Red staring at him in amusement through her garishly red bangs, head atilt.  "Yes?"

"Oh, nothing, dear boy.  Nothing at all."

\------------

      It is almost two hours before midnight when Sebastian knocks.  Ciel waits for a heavy moment after the second reverberation of knuckle against dark oak before calling out, "Enter," and watches quietly as Sebastian enters, a heavy trunk balanced with ease in the palm of his hand. Ciel is perched in the window seat reading a book--or, at least, pretending to.

The account of England's strategies in the most recent wars of imperialism has seemed even less captivating than usual; each sentence seems to make less sense than the last.  His mind keeps returning to vague thoughts of Sebastian, and that little smirk, and what feels like a slight queasiness in his stomach.  Without even knowing what changed, particularly, or how it changed-- _no, that's not true_ , he corrects himself, _I know exactly what's changed_.  It all began the night of the ball in Bath, not too many months prior, when a young nobleman of small acquaintance had had the nerve to corner him as they passed each other in a dimly-lit corridor, his wide face light by an inquisitive, small smile.

Ciel had been ready to respond violently--it wouldn't have to have been physical, a well-placed word about the man's social standing and a quick threat about a rumor concerning his mother's proclivities that stood ready to spread would have done the trick--when instead of accosting him, the man stretched forward in a way that belied his height and size.  There was a moment, just then, when he could have stopped it all from happening, a moment where the air seemed frozen around him like amber, but he did nothing, and then there was nothing but a soft exhale of breath against his lips before the man's mouth was pressing against him in a tentative kiss. 

And then he felt nothing--nothing but shock, and a quick rising curiosity, soon followed by a quickly rising lust that hit him like a train as the man licked his tongue softly against his lower lip before pressing more firmly against him, leaving him shocked and breathless.  It had been--it had been nothing like those dances with Elizabeth, or the soft, innuendo-laced conversations he was forced to endure with the rich Society ladies.  This was, _oh_.  This was something he knew he could want, and want _badly_ , and with that realization, his enjoyment withered like a leaf. 

He'd shoved the man away, made a brief threat, and continued down the hallway to return to the ballroom, trying to ignore the faint tremble of his hands.  He hadn't thought--he hadn't known he was like that, that he would _like_ that.  The concept hung around him.  _I liked that_.

It was after that cursed, cursed ball that Ciel had begun hating himself around Sebastian.  The loss of control in particular was abominable.  Beyond that, it was inappropriate.  To spend time--to spend even a moment silently watching Sebastian when that time could be better spent working towards revenging the deaths of his parents, towards revenging what had brought Sebastian to his side in the beginning--was unforgivable. 

And it was with that cold realization congealing like mud in his chest that he watched, eyes glittering, as Sebastian began pulling soft piles of fabric---and here his mind stuttered for a moment, unbelieving, as he caught sight of lace and ribbons--and placing them neatly upon his bed.

Ciel watched, eyes wide, as Sebastian continued pulling various-- _fripperies, female fripperies_ \--out of the trunk.  What began as a petticoat here, and a well-trimmed jacket there, ended as a varied wardrobe spread, neat and colorful, across his entire bed. 

At first busying himself with straightening the corners and folds of some of the more unruly garments, Sebastian paused to tilt his head questioningly at Ciel.  "Do you find something to your distaste, my lord?"  The entire question would have almost seemed innocent if it weren't from the glint in his eyes, dark and promising, that Ciel recognized after the past years spent together.  It was the same look he gave to upstart business men who fancied themselves gangsters, or to real gangsters who fancied themselves kidnappers--right before beating them, violently and bloodily, into the ground.

"It's..." -- _first rule, never let him see you're bothered--_ "well.  It's nothing.  To be honest," he continued, managing to keep his voice strong, "I'm just surprised that this is the best you could do.  Some of it doesn't even look like it could fit."

"Oh?" Sebastian was almost grinning now, as far as Sebastian's attempts at approximating human smiles went.  It was... _disturbing_ , he reassured himself.  _Nothing but disturbing_.  _Not attractive, not even a bit._   "I assure you they will.  Especially once the corset is on, I assure you there will be little problem at all."

Only years of practice at retaining a semblance of stoic courtesy when faced by idiotic, bumbling entrepreneurs who presumed to ally their products with Phantomhive keep Ciel from displaying any sign of his immediate shock, and on its heels, a quickly rising anger. 

 _He's baiting me.  This is another little game to pass the time for him, and he thinks he's winning._

 _Well._

 _Never let it be said that I've passed on an opportunity to prove him wrong._

"A corset?" he replied, keeping his voice uninterested.  Dry.  "I should hope it's not tight-laced, the long-term effects are reported to be rather detrimental."

Sebastian laughs softly.  "No, my lord.  I'm afraid you haven't the practice for that.  Although I'm sure you would, ah--rise to the occasion nonetheless."

 _Did he just--was than an innuendo?_   Ciel's mind stutters for a moment, disbelieving, before he once again pulls himself together, running an impatient hand through the fall of his bangs.  From across the room, Sebastian's eyes track the movement, an almost avaricious light brightening his dark eyes, but Ciel, distracted, fails to notice it.

"My own abilities aside," he began, getting to his feet to cross over the room to the bed, the polished floorboards moving softly under his feet with each step, "Just show me the clothes and get this damned business over with."

"My pleasure," he hears from beside him, as Ciel glares at the assorted garments, trying to ignore how smooth Sebastian's voice is as he says it and the brief tightening that he can feel in his trousers in response.

 _Dark blue, black, magenta, green, and--is that pink?  
_  
"Such a wide variety to choose from," he remarks, amused despite himself.

"Only the best for you, my lord.  But of course," and here Ciel cannot tell if he's tricking himself or if Sebastian's voice has dropped even lower, "I have my favorites."

"Best not be the blue.  It looks far too much like what I'd wear normally, and it wouldn't do for anyone to make a connection."

There is an irritated sound beside him, and Sebastian reaches forward to grab the deep blue evening dress off the bed.  Ciel pretends to be making a careful assessment of the remaining garments, but in reality is doing nothing but staring at the sliver of pale skin exposed as his butler's sleeves ride back slightly, leaving a gap between the end of his buttoned coat sleeve and the trim of his white gloves.  If, instead of reaching for a simple piece of cloth, those deceptively elegant hands were instead reaching for him--

 _This will not do._

 _"_ The black with the red trim is tolerable, I suppose."  His voice comes out strangely flat, the words seeming heavy and awkward.  "Perhaps the least heinous of the rest of them.  What are these, mass-produced?"

"Nothing so crude, I assure you."

"Tch," Ciel snorts, turning away to glare out the window, where the moon is nothing but a sliver in the dark sky.  Waxing or waning, he wonders vaguely.  There's a trick to telling, he knows, but somehow he can't quite remember it tonight.

"Really." His butlers voice seems to be coming from uncommonly close behind him.  "Have I ever provided you with anything but the best?  Perhaps the initial cooking attempts were less than exemplary, but beyond that, well.  I can hardly see cause for complaint."

"Your very presence is a cause for complaint," Ciel mutters, and starts when a white-gloved hand comes down to rest on his shoulder, a thumb grazing his collarbone so quickly he could almost think it accidental.

"The best clothes, the best food.  Loyal servants, a butler who always comes when called, a pristine mansion, why, I can barely think to what I have not supplied you.  Although..." his voice trails off, and Ciel responds gruffly, "Well?"  _I'll take your bait, demon._

 _"_ Perhaps I have been amiss in not proving you with, ah, how should I say -- company of a romantic nature?" 

 _He_ dares _\--_   Ciel's breath seems to have stopped entirely. 

"You would not believe the letters I have been fielding from a certain Lord Richmont.  I'm afraid that if you continue inspiring England's virile young men to such romantic endeavors, my capabilities as your personal secretary may soon be overrun."

Knocking the hand from his shoulder and turning violently, Ciel finds his voice shaking with anger.  Or at least he thinks it's anger.  He refuses to think of it as anything else.

"You presume too--" he begins, voice low and angry, but there is suddenly a finger pressed against his lips and a carefully blank-faced butler staring him straight in the eyes.

"Yes, my lord.  I presume."


	2. Chapter 2

“You step above your place.”  Ciel is thrumming with anger, his muscles taut as he stares at Sebastian.  His butler stares back in turn, withdrawing his extending finger to place his hands together in an almost conciliatory gesture, those blooded rust-colored eyes almost placidly calm.  _Infuriating calm, given the situation._

“My place, my lord, is by your side.  I simply believe that—how shall I put this?—the passage of time has endowed you with an ability to be driven to distraction that was simply not possible before.”

 _What an irritating euphemism._ “If you honestly believe that the promise of a good fuck would be enough lead me away from pursuing my revenge, you are a fool.” 

“Physical charms, perhaps not.  But surely you could see why I hesitate to place you in a position where you could possibly fall in love.”

And with that, the thrust of his butler’s interference becomes abundantly clear.  His anger slips away to be replaced by a clinging, bone-deep weariness.  _To think it took me so long to realize the real issue._

“My soul is yours, Sebastian,” he says, flatly, and lets his eyes slip from Sebastian to focus back on the clothes sprawled across his sheets.  “And now that you’ve had your chat, and I’ve decided on the damned dress, get the rest out of my sight so I can sleep.”

For a heavy moment, Sebastian doesn’t move.  “ _Now_ ,” he repeats, his anger returning, and his butler sweeps past him to collect the garments in his arms and place them neatly back in the same chest that he had brought them in.  Once in the doorway, he pauses briefly to look back at Ciel, his long form backlight strangely by the bright light of the hall. 

“This conversation is not over, my lord,” he says, then pauses again to look back at Ciel before shutting the door carefully behind him. 

His sleep that comes slowly, and when it does, it is filled with dreams of the haunting, raucous cry of a raven with ruby-red eyes.

\-------------------------------

Despite his dreams, or perhaps because of them, Ciel awakes the following morning feeling surprisingly rested.  Blinking the last remnants of sleep out of his eyes, he throws his legs out of bed and takes a moment to sit against the softness of his coverlet before the familiar double knock sounds on the door and Sebastian enters with a quick bow.

“Good morning, my lord.”

Ciel covers his instant irritation, muttering an incomprehensible greeting in return and yawning dramatically with tiredness he doesn’t feel. 

“I’ve brought you an Irish Breakfast Tea this morning, my lord, accompanied by a selection of French toast with maple syrup imported from the colonies.”

“Mph.” 

“This morning’s schedule will consist of preparations for the night’s ball.  Etiquette and manners in the morning, followed by the final fitting during the course of the afternoon and an expected departure time of five o’clock.”

“The— _entire_ afternoon?  And I already know my manners.”

“The manners of a well-born young man, you know very well, my lord—even if you choose not to use them—but the manners of a well-bred young lady are, I’m afraid, entirely different.”

“And the fittings?”

Sebastian is smiling softly as he pours the tea, the warm fragrance already rising from the pale porcelain cup to reach Ciel.  “Will, I assure you, take all afternoon.”

“Surely it cannot take so long—” 

“Not normally, I hear.  Madame Red claims to only need two hours, but she has years of experience and is accompanied by equally well-practiced maids.  In any case, you will require the additional time to accustom yourself to the feel of the dress.  I’m afraid it would not do for you to faint before you can even reach the Viscount.”

Ciel ignores his jibe— _as if I’d faint, how ridiculous_ —instead latching on to what seems to be a potential admission of relative incompetence on Sebastian’s part.

“Do you mean to tell me you’re not well-practiced?”  Biting messily into the French toast, he grins a little around his fork and continues, “Should I call Madame Red’s maids to assist me instead?”

“Well-practiced and skilled are not the same, my lord.” Ciel looks up from leaning into another bite of toast to see Sebastian looking at him with an unfamiliar glint in his eyes.  “You will find I am quite skilled.”

 Eyebrows rising, Ciel quickly swallows the toast while trying not to consider all of the possible innuendos that are coming to his mind in response to—well, that.   _When did everything he said start sounding so sexual?_

“Whatever.  Take the damned toast.  I’m done.”

\-------------------------

 _The drawing room, one hour later--_

“No, no, no, it’s all wrong!” Madame Red moans from where she lies sprawled back in one of the library’s deeply cushioned chairs.  Lau is ensconced beside her, badly faking absorption into a book that, even from this distance, looks upside down.  “Too irritated, too aggressive.  Ciel, you’re a _lady_ ,” she cries, dramatically, “not a grumpy old man masquerading as one!”

“I’m trying,” he replies, his hand tightening around his cane.  “It’s not my fault if being a lady requires such stupid simpering.”

“It’s not simpering,” she glares back, “it’s seduction!  You’re going to have to be a delicate flower to get the attention of the Viscount, from what I hear.  Well, delicate, but not too delicate—he’ll want to see that hidden avarice, so you’ve got to show a willingness to be corrupted by his strong, experienced hands…”

“Madame Red!” he says, exasperated.  “This is not your private fantasy.”

“Oh, but it is!” she giggles, her butler hiding what looks like a smile of his own as he reaches up to adjust his glasses, and Ciel is about ready to open his mouth to release a stream of furied vitriol when Sebastian steps between them both.

“My lord.  If I may.”

“Yes?” Ciel growls, looking up at him.  “What is it?”

His butler stares at him implacably for one long moment before turning towards the chairs and bowing.  “Madame Red.  Lau.  May I ask you to leave?  I do not believe having an audience is conducive to my lord’s training.  If you’d be so kind, I’ve laid out an mid-morning spread for your enjoyment in the west drawing room.”

Sharing an exasperated glance, they both mutter as they sweep out of the library, Lau throwing the book carelessly behind his shoulder on his way.  Ciel closes his eyes briefly and takes in a deep breath to recollect himself.  _That have better not have been my first edition Spenser—_

“I could not help but overhearing during my trip down the halls that there appear to be some, well, problems with your etiquette lessons,” Sebastian speaks from close by, and Ciel looks up to directly meet those red eyes from barely two feet away.

“Yes,” he says, flatly, knowing that he’s failing to conceal his deepening bad temper when Sebastian’s mouth quirks up at the corner. 

“And the problems seem to be…?”

“Don’t even try to pretend you didn’t ‘overhear’ that too.”

“Well,” Sebastian is smirking at him now, his eyes creasing softly at the corner, “if you say so.”

“And?”

“It’s true that my lord’s manner is not ladylike, but I stand firm in the belief that it can be improved.”

“Improve it, then,” Ciel grumps in response, crossing his arms and glaring up at Sebastian, who was—was beginning to look almost gleeful.  _Oh, no._

“As my master commands,” and within a moment he is standing close—too close, far too close—while one of his gloved hands snaps upwards to wrap and press around Ciel’s chin.

“To begin,” his voice is deeper than usual, and Ciel’s mind seems to be running in circles in response to that damned hand wrapped so tightly around him—he can practically smell him, as much as he knew him to have a smell, “your posture is too challenging.”

“Please understand the difference between this,” and the pressure against his chin forces his face up, as Ciel stares defiantly across at him, “and _this,_ ”and then his face is being tilted firmly downwards and to the side.  _Exposed,_ he thinks.  _Submissive._

Furious, Ciel breaks eye contact to glare at the ottoman chair to his right, and his butler _tsks_ in response, drumming his fingers in one slow roll against Ciel’s cheek.  “Now, now.  Look back at me.  You shouldn’t underestimate the effect of your eyes, my lord.  I’ve heard many tell you they’re beautiful, and they are not particularly wrong.” 

The deep twist of reluctant lust that Sebastian’s low, rolling voice is inspiring in his gut is unwelcome, and Ciel fights to concentrate instead on the barb within Sebastian’s compliment.  “Not particularly wrong?” he rasps, looking upward challengingly to stare back at his butler, who has gone almost completely still, eyes locked on Ciel.

“To be frank,” and here he begins rubbing his thumb in slow circles around Ciel’s pulse point, “I have a soft spot for one in particular,” and his mind seems to stuttering to itself, shocked— _the contract, he likes the eye inscribed with the contract—_ as Sebastian continues, “Call it a demon’s vanity, if you’d like.”

He’s hardly even aware that he’s still staring upwards, eyes wide and mouth slightly dropped, until the thumb caressing his throat stills and Sebastian murmurs, “And this, my lord, is precisely the enticing look you should be going for.”

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gak, why is formatting so hard? That, and trying to make long(er) chapters. I have the stamina of an asthmatic Chihuahua when it comes to writing.
> 
> Anyway. Hope you enjoy!

For a long moment Ciel is still; he feels a strange urge to – to lean into the warmth of those hands further, to press even closer. But no, he reminds himself, trying to marshal his increasingly incoherent thoughts, his rising confusion over the litany of random touches and suggestive comments that have been plaguing him—that would not do.

He is Ciel Phantomhive, his parents are dead, his butler is bound to him by contract—and here a smaller voice whispers _he would not do this if he did not want your soul_ —and he is better than this – this petty lust. The urge to sink further into the silence of the library, and see where that silence takes them next.

“You’ve made your point,” he rasps, a little alarmed by the roughness of his own voice, and pulls away. Sebastian follows, echoing Ciel’s step backward with a step forward of his own, a curious twist to his mouth.

“Your pace of learning thrills—yet I find I’m not done teaching you.” He advances again, and Ciel raises a hand to – to ward against him, to keep him away, but Sebastian is too fast, and his raised hand ends up pressed firmly against the soft lining of his butler’s black coat; a useless defense. There is a hand – a hand against the back of his neck, holding him in place.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he hisses.

“Instructing.” There is a pause. “Master, what do you think the Viscount will expect from you?”

“Sex.” _I’m no blushing v—well, at least I don’t blush._

The hand against his nape rises slowly, a slow caress up to his hairline.

“Yes. But since you will not, in fact, be sleeping with him, it is far more important for you to be able to promise sex—and to be able to do so convincingly. And you must forgive me for saying so, but you, Ciel Phantomhive, do not purposefully ‘entice.’ You demand. And that,” the hand is rising further now to curl in his hair and tug softly, “will not do. Not here.”

“Not then, you mean?” Ciel snaps.

A soft laugh in response. “Of course, my lord. My mistake.”

“Continue on, then,” Ciel snaps. “I’ve got a busy schedule today, and have neither the time nor the patience to deal with semantic mistakes on your part.”

It sounds haughty, just as he meant it to, but what he really wants to say is this: _Get out. Get out now, so I can have a moment to recollect myself, and figure out what it is what new game you’re playing at now._ And if the calm, self-satisfaction evident in Sebastian’s softly crinkling eyes is anything to go off of, he knows it as well.

“Certainly.” The tug on his hair tightens abruptly, pulling him sharply backward as Sebastian advances steadily forward, and Ciel stumbles backwards a few steps, glaring furiously at his butler all the while, until the hard edges of the mahogany bookshelf are pressing insistently into his back.

“There are three things you’ll need to remember when you face the Viscount as a delectably young lady of Society.” Ciel arches an eyebrow, attempting to look bored silly. In truth, he is trying to ignore how little space separates him from Sebastian. It’s probably less than an inch, and if he pressed forward a little, or if Sebastian would just tug him towards him— _god._

The train of thought only intensifies the low ache in his abdomen, an ache that only seems to intensify at the low snap of Sebastian’s lecturing. “To begin with, you’re ignorant. Bored, spoiled, and raised in luxury with little challenges or chances at self-improvement. No doubt you’ve met women like this before?”

Ciel begins to answer, his thoughts drifting vaguely to Elizabeth, but a gloved finger presses against his lips for the second time that day, silencing him. “Second. You’re selfish. You always get what you want, and you usually like what you get, but lately you’ve been craving something that all the sweet cakes in the world won’t satisfy, and you don’t think you could possibly rest until you get a taste.”

Sebastian’s voice, Ciel thinks idly, is fascinating. Against his own expectations, he finds himself relaxing back against the bookshelf, his muscles loosening as he lets the words wash over him. His butler has begun to drag his thumb softly across his lips, pulling softly on his lower lip, but it hardly seems important.

“Last of all, my lord, you are helpless. Bound by virtue of your sex to rules that you never even had a chance to protest, your attitude when speaking with the Count must be one of bravado, not bravery.” Sebastian looks utterly detached as he speaks, but his finger is now pressing into Ciel’s softly parted mouth. Ciel feels like he should protest, but his mind feels strangely heavy, and trying to muster up a resistance feels as hopeless as trying to weave safely through a swamp in a storm.

“Despite whatever sexual challenges you entice him with, you’re scared underneath that façade, and you have good reason to be—the openly wanton find little mercy in the laws of your country. And you, my lord, are wanton.” Absorbed in the dark, lulling appeal of appeal of his butler’s voice, Ciel finds himself oddly unwilling to protest, and instead swallows wetly around Sebastian’s finger.

His butler goes very still. There is a moment where he does nothing but stare down at him, face unreadable, before he presses down to capture Ciel’s lips with his own, the fingers in his mouth pulling away to lightly rest against the shelf beside Ciel’s head, entrapping him further.

It is not a kind kiss, but he finds himself responding with a desperation that he did not even know he was capable of as he thrusts upwards into Sebastian’s hold, his hands leaving his sides to grab fistfuls of his coat, seeking more contact, wanting to touch and be touched.

When Sebastian’s tongue slides into his mouth teasingly, Ciel feels his erection throb in his pants at the sensation—at that hint of other, more personal invasions—and moans. Amidst the quietness of the library, the sound is disturbingly loud.

Ciel stiffens; the implications of what he is doing suddenly rising up to envelope him with anger and shame. His hands, curled up as they are into the fabric of his butler’s coat, look foreign to him. He considers, briefly, how strange to know that they are his, before pulling them back sharply and then rocking his right palm forward to slam into Sebastian’s noise, which makes a very satisfyingly human cracking sound.

Much less satisfying is the way that Sebastian hardly even looks surprised, but instead steps away to pull a handkerchief from his pocket and dab at the blood that has begun to drip out his nostrils. He considers going forward to hit him again, but his reasoning is returning to him as the space between them increases. _Physical violence_ , he thinks coldly, _means nothing to him._

If he is to salvage this situation at all, he thinks, it will have to be done with words and wit, not with the strike of an open palm or a closed fist. Salvage. The word tastes bitter in his mouth. Perhaps salvaging the situation is impossible—even in chess, a pawn loss cannot be regained—but he can still win this.

In a deliberate gesture, he wipes his hand across his mouth in a gesture of disgust, watching coldly as Sebastian’s eyes follow the movement, before he turns to spit into the carpeting.

Once he knows what he’s fighting, and why, he can win. _I just wish I knew what new game he thinks we’re playing._


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been so long! I had to work out some stuff for my eldest brother's wedding down south.

By the time the old clock in the hallway is beginning to ring out half past eleven, Ciel finds that he can’t stop fidgeting.

Despite his best attempts at distraction, the feeling of that brief contact with Sebastian is never far from his thoughts. Looking down at his hands, he remembers the feeling of clinging roughly to the fine fabric of Sebastian’s coat. Licking his lips, remembers the taste of him on his tongue. Breathes, and recalls once again the thrill of those hot exhales of air against his lips.

 _This is intolerable_ , he thinks. _No wonder people become such idiots._

_It won’t be me._

Staring moodily across the room at the wallpapering, he knows with a sick clarity that the reason why he doesn’t want to be like that – why he won’t be like that – has very little to do with staying focused on revenging his parents and very much to do with keeping control over Sebastian. More importantly, keeping from being controlled by Sebastian.

_It won’t be me._

_\----------------------  
_

Sebastian enters the same way he usually does when he knows he’s being unhappily anticipated—two fast knocks, an obsequious smile, and a quick bow. After being around his butler for so many years, he privately believes it to be Sebastian’s favorite way to enter a room that doesn’t involve the outright use of weapons.

“You’ve not brought me lunch.”

“I’m sorry, my lord.”

His butler looks vaguely apologetic, but Ciel knows better.

“It’s far better to apply the corset before eating. Your waistline will be much better.”

“To be sure, but my stomach will be much worse.”

Sebastian chuckles dryly. “I daresay my lord will manage. Will you join me at your dressing table?” Walking over to the table, overhung with a large mirror that rests within a gilded frame, Ciel is embarrassed to find that his heartbeat is already picking up.

Yet looking back at himself through the glass, he looks the same as always: wealthy, poised, and arrogant. It’s steadying.

“Reluctantly.”

“Oh,” and that voice is like _silk_ , “that’ll do just fine.”

Ciel raises both eyebrows and rolls his eyes, knowing full well Sebastian can see his every reaction in the mirror. It’s immature: exactly the treatment he would typically give a merchant who had tried to make him a deal he found spectacularly unimpressive.

“Do you need me to start undressed,” he asks, sighing, “or is wearing men’s clothing underneath corsets simply a done thing?”

There is no chuckle this time. “Yes, my lord.”

Beginning to work at his buttons, Ciel is hyperaware of his own body. Each twist of his fingers, followed by loosening of his overshirt, seems like more than what it is. It’s been years since Sebastian actually dressed him so personally. Laid out his outfits, yes. Assisted him in and out of boots, overcoats, vests, surely. But not this.

_This is nothing. He’s seen you before. Why this, now? And you’re halfway there._

Without looking in the mirror or twisting to look behind him, it would be almost impossible to know that there was another human—well, he corrects himself, another being—in the room.

Sebastian is perfectly still. _Poised_ , he thinks briefly, _like me_.

He’s almost at the last button now.

But it’s not really the same at all. His poise, he knows, is the poise of a man in front of a painter, an audience. Sebastian’s is the poise of a predator behind his prey.

_At least he knows enough to say nothing of this morning._

The buttons are done. Shrugging his shoulders in a way that belies his actual state of mind, Ciel lets the shirt fall off his back. Expecting, of course, for his butler to catch it, but he doesn’t, instead simply—simply standing there in favor of letting it drop softly to the floor.

Ciel’s mouth is dry. Sebastian steps closer.

“Your drawers, my lord.”

“Can very well stay on underneath that petticoat you’re holding, and no one will be an inch the wiser!”

There is a soft sigh. “I will be more than an inch the wiser. But I concede. Please raise your arms.”

As aghast as he is over the near loss of his drawers, Ciel obeys without thinking. Skin pebbling against the cold air of his room, he lifts his arms upward. His butler confidently reaches above, and with a soft rustle of fabric, the soft silk is sliding down to settle against his waist and cling gently to his thighs.

Unsettled, he casts a quick glance upward into the mirror at Sebastian. His butler is staring straight back at him, his mouth slightly parted in a smirk. The tilt of his lips—the inhuman steadiness, absolutely unwavering quality of his gaze—it makes him feel pinned, and he feels his skin pebbling again.

_Although this time, not so much from the cold, is it?_

“And now?”

“The hard part, I’m afraid,” and Ciel thinks Sebastian looks far too pleased with himself to be even the slightest bit afraid, “”It’s time for the corset.”

Ciel sets his jaw. “Very well.”

Moments tick by, and Sebastian is still behind him with no corset in view. He snaps. “Are you going to get it, or not? Dammit, Sebastian, I don’t have a butler so I can run hither and thither fetching ladies undergarments for myself while he watches.”

Sebastian eyes widen, and he looks briefly startled before bowing deeply.

“Apologies, my lord. I became lost in thought.” _Of all the blasted things to say_ — Ciel thinks, incredulous, as he watches Sebastian speed briefly out of the room, coattails flying behind him, to reappear in a matter of seconds, corset in hand.

It’s a strange thing, just lying folded in his butler’s grasp: nothing but a long piece of fabric with whalebone carefully stitched in and laces loosely interwoven at its center.

 _It doesn’t look so bad_ , he thinks dubiously, but less than five minutes later he is eating his own words as Sebastian begins to set to work at tightening the laces. It’s _terrible._

To begin with, there was the way his breath had caught slightly after his butler had first wrapped the corset around him. He felt encased, trapped, and caught, and it had thrilled him as much as it shamed him.  He wasn't even such which of the two feelings had affected him more.

Then there was the actual tightening. The god-awful—

_“Ouch!”_

Sebastian, behind him, is unwavering and unsympathetic. Ciel risks a glance into the mirror and sees that his butler, his eyes glittering, is completely absorbed in his task.

“Oh, my little lord. And it will only get worse from here.”


End file.
